


Inappropriate

by inlovewithnight



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Fisting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-07 13:54:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When are you going to quit giving me the intense eyes and make a move?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inappropriate

Dallon isn't sure when this thing started. Maybe when Ian cut his hair. That plus the stage outfits created this whole...buttoned-up, clean-cut, nice-young-man thing that hits Dallon right in the Mormon.

The reality of Ian, of course, is still the guy who steals Dallon's clean socks, wants to have stoner-existentialist conversations about the greatest guitarists _of all time_ at three AM, and can win any terrible road stories contest with an anecdote starring The Cab. There's a certain level of cognitive dissonance when Dallon looks at him. It's really distracting.

He wants to pin Ian down and figure him out. He's not sure how you ask a bandmate if he's into that, though. Hallmark doesn't make cards for the occasion.

**

"So dude." Ian is lying on the couch with his legs hooked over the back and his head hanging off the seat, effectively upside-down. It's like sharing the dressing room with a monkey. "When are you going to quit giving me the intense eyes and make a move?"

There are many ways to reply to that. _Right now. Never._ Those are both good choices.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replies instead.

"You keep giving me these smoldering gazes and long soulful stares and sometimes I turn around fast and you've totally been checking out my butt."

Dallon forces himself to wait, take a breath, recite a couple of state capitals. "None of that is true."

"It is." Ian half-flips, half-rolls off the couch and turns his back to Dallon, planting his hands on his hips. "I know it's a great butt. Look for as long as you'd like."

"Go away." Dallon grabs a magazine from his bag and does his best to go into full ignore mode.

"I could be a model for Putting Stuff In Butts Monthly."

"Ian." Dallon hides his face behind the magazine for a minute. "What exactly are you trying to accomplish here?"

Since he can't see, it's kind of a surprise when Ian climbs into his lap and straddles him. "Dude, I told you. I'm trying to get you to make a move."

It's hard to keep an impassive face while this is happening. It's hard to do a lot of things. "That would be inappropriate."

"Oh!" Ian beams at him, rocking back and forth a little in a way that makes it _really_ hard for Dallon to keep his cool. "It's only inappropriate if one of us gets off."

"I thought you wanted me to make a move."

"I do."

Dallon takes a deep breath, holds it, lets it go. "What's the point of making a move if it doesn't lead to us both getting off?"

"Dude. Sex doesn't have to be about orgasms. It can just be about the _sensation_. Riding that wave and not worrying about the crest, you know?"

Ah. Ian is high. That makes sense, then. "Ian..."

"Here. Let me show you." Ian slides off his lap and shimmies out of his jeans before Dallon can properly get his brain together. Ian went commando today, of course. Dallon's pretty sure Ian only wears underwear on-stage, and that's only because Brendon's unpredictable and public decency laws exist. "There's lube in my bag there, could you grab it?"

"What am I going to do with lube?"

"Dude." Ian bends over the table, pushing his ass up in the air. "You're going to fist me."

Dallon sort of stops breathing, but that's okay, because Ian keeps talking.

"It'll feel awesome, but it'll be too intense for me to stay hard, right? And you can get all turned on watching me, but not jerk off if you think that would be weird. Or you can go jerk off in another room or whatever. The point is, totally not inappropriate, totally fun."

Dallon's life is really, intensely weird. "I don't think my hand will fit in you without doing some actual damage."

"Oh, please." Ian looks back over his shoulder and grins. "I'm a pro at this. Putting Stuff In Butts Monthly, remember?"

Dallon slowly steps closer to the table and runs his hand over the curve of Ian's ass. "I really thought you were making that up."

"A gentleman never tells." Ian pushes back against his hand and rests his head against his forearms. "Come on, bro. Put it in me."

Dallon uses half the little tube of lube before he even gets started, and adds the other half as he goes along, working his fingers in and then following Ian's breathless, gaspy instructions on how to tuck his thumb, turn his wrist, and "just fucking go for it, man, seriously, if you stop now I will fucking kill you, I promise, it's really fucking good."

Ian is really fucking hot, and really fucking tight, and it's like Dallon can feel every muscle in his body, every tiny move he makes to keep his balance against the table, every breath, every heartbeat. It's maybe the most intense thing he's ever felt in his life. By the noises Ian's making, rough little gasps broken up with high-pitched whines, it's even more intense on the other side. That's...not really something Dallon knows how to process, right now. Holy hell.

"Now you should move your hand," Ian gasps, sweat dripping off his forehead onto the table. "Just a little bit."

"Like, flexing my fist? Or moving my arm? Or..."

"Dude. Whatever. Anything. Just fucking move. But not much! Not much. A little bit."

Dallon moves. Ian keens, raw and really fucking perfect, but true to his word, his dick is mostly soft against his thigh.

"H-how long should I keep this up?" Dallon asks, moving his hand again.

"Until I tell you to stop," Ian says, his voice thick and choked.

It occurs to Dallon, probably way too late, that he totally just got played. He rotates his wrist slowly, and Ian makes a gurgling noise and bangs his forehead against the table.

He can live with that.


End file.
